I'm detached again, disconnected, I can't seem to find a way to bring back an old pretend overused and abused habit. Surrounded by people in a dark crowded room, everyone conversing about nothing; that's all there is to it... they're all nothing, this means nothing to me, absolutely nothing. The same absurd thoughts of alienation got a hold of me, I can't no longer act... I'm too tired, weary and restless, acting has become a drag; that's all there is to it... dragging myself everyday to be something... just anything.
They'll almost always immediately ask you about pain; what experiences have you had in your life that would justify that look in your eyes, they'll expect you to give a reason; a solid, valid reason or else they'll disapprove and reject you almost always immediately. I've never had a reason and I wish I did; maybe only then would I be fine with whatever it is that's stopping me from being fine. To some sadness is a way of life; sadness is what being fine is like. And those who ask can never understand what it's like to have this constant war in your mind.
I can't give him anything I haven't given already to someone else, perhaps it was him whom I should have waited for, perhaps it was him who was capable of opening me up for more, perhaps I was his in a different story that'll never be told.
I'm detached again, disconnected, the room is filling in and I'm by the side pretending, everything fades then comes back again, without a taste or thrill of suspense and I'm just another finally reaching the end.
They'll almost always immediately ask you about pain; what experiences have you had in your life that would justify that look in your eyes, they'll expect you to give a reason; a solid, valid reason or else they'll disapprove and reject you almost always immediately. I've never had a reason and I wish I did; maybe only then would I be fine with whatever it is that's stopping me from being fine. To some sadness is a way of life; sadness is what being fine is like. And those who ask can never understand what it's like to have this constant war in your mind.
I can't give him anything I haven't given already to someone else, perhaps it was him whom I should have waited for, perhaps it was him who was capable of opening me up for more, perhaps I was his in a different story that'll never be told.
I'm detached again, disconnected, the room is filling in and I'm by the side pretending, everything fades then comes back again, without a taste or thrill of suspense and I'm just another finally reaching the end.
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